


my name is sanha, what's yours?

by heybinnie



Category: ASTRO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, flower child sanha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 01:57:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heybinnie/pseuds/heybinnie
Summary: a story of flowers, fateful meetings and the love of a son for his mother, told throughout the (painful) ages of growing up.alternatively, sanha learns the hard way that hanging on is the only way to get through anything.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *reposting it bc im a mess

when sanha was eight years old, he started helping his mother by selling flowers they had grown in their little garden. his mother hadn’t allowed him to help her then, claiming that he had still been far too rough and impatient, and sent him away every day to town to earn some profit while she baked for the local bakery.

sanha was fine with it. he loved flowers, and would pluck wild daisies on his way to the townsquare, sticking them into the pockets of his overalls. he’d sell his mother’s flowers for a dollar each; on good days, he would come home with his basket half full. on bad days, he’d return without a penny. sanha took it all in stride and gave his mother whatever he had on him.

* * *

when he was nine, someone took away his basket of flowers. very few people had been around that particular day when his basket was snatched right out of his hands at noon, when the sun was high in the sky and almost painful on his skin. sanha was hot and hungry and tired and couldn’t chase the man down. he cried all the way home and into his mother’s arms.

his mother had wiped away his tears and told him it was all right. he cried even harder, saying “i’m sorry” through his snot and fat tears, and his mother had pulled him out to her garden and sat down beside him on the grass.

she taught him about the flowers that had bloomed and the ones that were only starting to grow. sanha stopped crying when she showed him her sunflowers, bright and tall and proud among the bed of roses and tulips, and had kissed him on the forehead.

he had decided right then and there that his mother was a sunflower, and wondered if he’d ever be as beautiful and bright as she was.

* * *

when he was ten, a boy no taller than he was ran straight into him and toppled his basket over. a few of his mother’s beautiful flowers were crushed, colourful petals strewn across the asphalt, and sanha had sniffled and looked down at his shoes while the boy apologised over and over.

“i’ll buy a flower! i didn’t mean to ruin them, i promise. let me buy a flower.”

“no!” sanha had pouted. “you can’t buy any. you’ll just kill them.”

“i won’t, my mama will take care of them, okay? stop crying, you look ugly when you cry–”

“why are you so mean?! i hate you!”

“but it’s true! stop crying and you’d stop looking ugly.”

sanha had sniffled one last time before frowning harder at his basket. the boy scuffed his shoe against the ground and said, “how old are you?”

“…i’m ten,” sanha mumbled.

“ten? i’m eleven!” the boy clapped his hands. “i’m older than you, so you have to listen to me. i want a flower.”

sanha scowled at him for a long time before pulling out three beautiful tulips. “you need to buy three. no, buy five! or i’ll tell my mom and she’ll beat you up.”

“fine! fine, gimme five,” the boy sulked, handing over his money and looking at the tulips in disdain. “now i have no money for any candy.”

“you don’t deserve any!”

“brat!” the boy stuck out his tongue and ran away with his flowers. “bye, brat!”

“my name is sanha!” he yelled after him, but the boy had disappeared around the corner. sanha never saw him again.

* * *

when he was twelve, there used to be a time where he’d wake up almost every day to his mother coughing. sanha never understood why she kept saying she was fine when she very clearly wasn’t, so instead of spending the entire week at the townsquare, he would put aside three days to take care of her at home. he cleaned the house, told her customers to come back another day, and tended to her garden gently and carefully. she gave him a little, apologetic smile every second she could, and he'd shoot her with a sunny smile right back.

on days when he went back to selling flowers, sanha would work twice as hard. he’d call out to every person walking past and get them to buy his flowers, and he never went home until the basket was empty.

his mother had been awfully worried when he came home near midnight one day. he felt bad for the lines that creased her forehead, but figured it was worth the medicine he bought with all the money he earned.

his mother had gotten better after that, and while he was glad, sanha kept working harder and harder. just in case.

* * *

when sanha was thirteen, someone almost stole his basket again. he’d been eating his lunch by the fountain, swinging his legs and humming to himself when a tall, dark figure brushed past and snatched his flowers.

sanha had been slightly more quick on his feet; he grabbed the man’s wrists and yelled at him, and he put up a fight for all of two minutes before he was pushed into the water behind him. he broke the surface with a gasp and was ready to cry his eyes out, uncaring about being drenched to the bone, thinking about his mother who’d grown those flowers with so much care and love–

–and watched as a boy tripped the man over and saved the basket from falling to the ground. the man had gotten right up and was about to beat the boy half to death, but the boy didn’t seem to have any fear in him as he punched the man in the face and kicked him in the crotch. a few of the other townsfolk had stopped gawking at the scene by then, and minutes later, the man was taken away.

sanha stepped out of the fountain, eyes wide and mouth open as the boy ambled over like he hadn’t just saved him from a mental breakdown, and said, “wow.”

“here. this is yours, right?” the boy said, voice surprisingly soft and cracked at the end. “i think some of them are still fine, but–”

“you were so cool!” sanha cried out. “and you saved my life!”

“i saved your flowers, not your life, man,” the boy laughed.

“these flowers are my life, so it’s the same thing.”

“you’re telling me you sell away your life?”

“no, i– that’s not–” sanha huffed when the boy laughed harder. “anyway, thank you.”

“nah, it's no problem.” the boy smiled at him and moved to leave, but sanha shoved a daffodil into his hands. the boy blinked. “um, thanks?”

“take it, you can have it.”

“well, okay, i guess.” the boy ruffled up his hair, and sanha got the feeling that he was just– an older brother. “see you around, buddy.”

“my name is sanha!” sanha called out after him, but he had disappeared around the corner. sanha never saw him again.

* * *

when he was fourteen, his mother’s cough came back. it seemed even worse than before, and sanha had the horrible, inkling feeling that she had been sick the entire time.

he had no idea how the hell she hid it from him, but he wasn’t going to leave it at that any longer. he sold off all his flowers every day and took up little odd jobs so he could buy her medicine once more, and kept this up for a couple of months.

his mother accepted it all without a fight. _probably because she was too weak to fight back,_ sanha would sometimes think, and then immediately told himself to shut up.

* * *

when sanha turned fifteen, he passed out in the middle of the townsquare from sheer exhaustion and fatigue. black spots had blurred his vision and his body felt heavy, and he just barely managed to rest his worn basket of flowers on the fountain before he dropped to the ground.

he woke up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar house, and jolted up when he saw a man look down at him with worried but surprised eyes. sanha scrambled away until his back hit a wall, but the man simply held his hand up, holding a damp cloth in his grip.

“hello,” the man said, offering him a small smile. “you fainted in the townsquare earlier today, so i brought you home and took care of you. are you alright?”

sanha blinked. “i fainted?”

“yes. i think it’s most probably from–”

“where’s my basket?” sanha said suddenly, looking around. “my flowers? where’s my flowers? and my bike?”

“your flowers are on the kitchen table, i didn’t leave them behind, calm down,” the man said gently. “and your bike is outside. everything is fine.”

sanha exhaled, feeling his shoulders relax, then immediately blushed and bowed his head. “i’m sorry for being rude, my name is sanha, thank you for taking care of me–”

“don’t worry about it, really.”

“but there must be something i can do to–”

“no, really, it’s fine–”

“please let me just–”

“alright, alright,” the man laughed, and sanha looked up to see his eyes turned into crescents. “how about those flowers, then? i’d like to buy some."

“you can have them–”

“no, i’m buying them, and if you want to thank me you’ll let me pay,” the man insisted, and took out his wallet. “and if you still aren’t happy about that, do me a favour as well, then.”

“…what is it?”

“promise me you won’t overwork yourself anymore,” the man said gently. “have lots of rest and drink lots of water. okay? how about that?”

sanha swallowed around the lump in his throat. “i’ll try.”

“that’s good enough, i suppose,” the man smiled. “now how about those flowers?”

* * *

by the time sanha turned sixteen, he was practically tending to his mother’s garden himself. he took great care of them like his mother always did, and his large, rough hands learned to be gentle and careful. he had scratches across his palms for all the cuts he’d gotten, and sometimes he would count them to sleep.

by the end of the year, his mother seemed better. she smiled more and didn’t need as much medicine as she did before, and sanha almost cried out in relief when he saw her tending to the bed of carnations one morning.

_everything will be fine now,_ sanha told himself every day when he cycled back home from the townsquare.

everything will be fine.

* * *

when he turned seventeen, his mother coughed out blood.

sanha stood in the threshold of her bedroom in shock as she gasped weakly, _still_ trying to hide her trembling frame. sanha hadn’t said anything, mind going into overdrive yet pulling blanks all at once. instead, he had gently tucked her into bed, scrubbed the floor clean of red spots, and waited until she fell asleep.

then he rode out into town like the wind, shoved his bike aside and yelled out, “please buy my flowers! please, _please_ buy my flowers!”

he held his basket out to every person who walked past, looking at them with desperate, pleading eyes, practically begging them to buy one. only a few bought his flowers out of what seemed to be fear and pressure, while everyone else steered clear of the boy who seemed to have lost his mind.

then a hand was on his shoulder and sanha turned around to find a man who looked older than him, but stood just a few inches shorter. the man watched him carefully as he pulled out flowers from his basket, frantically holding them up in a bundle, offering it to him, asking if he would buy them, hoping he would, please _,_ please _, please–_

“hey,” the man said gently, voice deep but soothing. “look at me. hey, what’s wrong?”

and sanha started crying and spilling tears all over his roses and tulips, choking on his sobs and hunched over his worn-out basket, gasping out about _mom_ and _illness_ and _blood_ , scrubbing a hand across his tired face then clutched at his chest where it seemed his heart was splitting in _half_ –

the man pulled him into a tight, warm hug, pushing the basket out of the way, and rubbed his back slowly. he murmured something into his ear but sanha couldn’t hear him, couldn’t understand what he was saying through all the panic flooding his brain, when the man pulled back and reached into his pocket.

then pushed a hundred dollars into his chest.

sanha blinked, breath stuttering. “wh-what?”

“i’ll buy all of them,” the man said softly. “all these flowers. i’ll buy them, so here’s my payment.”

“but– but– this is– this is too much, there aren’t even a hundred flowers here–”

“doesn’t matter, take it,” the man squeezed his shoulder. “you don’t have time to fuss over this. _take it._ ”

sanha watched, speechless, as the man reached into his basket and took all his flowers into both his hands. he tucked a bundle against his shoulder and held the other in a grip, then stepped back and offered sanha a kind smile.

“now go home and help your mother. use the money to– stop crying! why are you crying?”

“i’m– i–” sanha hiccuped. “thank you– thank you _so much–_ ”

the man smiled, and patted his back. the flowers brushed against his shoulders.

“don’t worry about it, kiddo. take care.”

and off he went. sanha watched through blurry eyes as he disappeared down the street, petals trailing behind him on the ground.

“it's sanha,” he choked out in a whisper. “my name is sanha, and thank you.”

he wished he’d asked for the man’s name.

* * *

sanha went home and ran his fingers through his mother’s hair. he told her gently to stand up, and she did, with a slowness that made his heart ache. he wrapped a blanket over her shoulders and put her shoes on for her. then they made their way ever so slowly towards the town, down the winding dirt path and past little wildflowers until they reached the local hospital.

his mother was admitted into a ward and had to stay there until the doctors found out what her illness was. sanha spent his days by his mother’s bed and out on the streets, selling what flowers he had left. he’d go home every now and then to tend to the garden, but never stayed for too long.

he hoped that his mother wouldn’t have to stay in the hospital for too long, too.

* * *

the doctors found out.

* * *

when sanha was seventeen, he lost his mother. she had a beautiful garden that once thrived just outside their lovely little cottage, but was now a bed of dead leaves and flowers. there was only a few left; a small bunch of carnations and sunflowers.

he took them to town despite the rain beating down on his shoulders, and belatedly realised, only moments after sitting on the fountain, that he could have used his bike. he sat there with his carnations in one hand and a couple of sunflowers in another, and realised, again, that there wouldn’t be anyone around when it was raining this hard. so he simply sat there.

he didn’t know how much time had passed. hours, maybe, or just some long minutes. he didn’t really care. not about the time, or his flowers, or the rain dripping from his bangs and down his cheeks–

“hey! what are you doing here?”

the rain seemed to stop over his head. sanha looked up and met the bright eyes of a man with golden hair, holding a yellow umbrella over both of them. the man prodded at his shoulder.

“are you okay? alive? no? why the heck are you out here? it’s raining!”

_is it, now,_ sanha thought, and told himself to shut up.

“you shouldn’t be out here, buddy. where’s your home? i’ll take you back.”

sanha didn’t say anything.

“…are you a ghost?”

“…no.”

“what’s your name?”

sanha didn’t reply.

“hey, i asked you for your name, c’mon.”

“…”

“don’t you have a name or something? aren’t you gonna ask for mine, too?”

sanha looked up at him wearily. “…my name is sanha. what’s yours?”

“sanha? nice name. and i’m not telling you mine.”

“what? you just said–”

“you shouldn’t give out your name to strangers, sanha.”

“you just–”

“why do you have flowers? and without any cover, too. poor little things,” the man cooed, fingering the petals of a sunflower. “are you selling them?”

“i guess so.”

“yeah? how much?”

“i don’t know. just take it, i don’t really care.”

“it’s free? nice!” the man pulled out a stalk from sanha’s loose grip, and twirled it around between his fingers. “it’s beautiful, even if it does look a little roughed up. don’t you think so?”

then he held the sunflower up beside sanha’s face, making him jerk back slightly in surprise. “it’s a lot like you, y’know?”

“what?”

“this sunflower. it’s a lot like you; worn out and tired, but still wonderful.” the man gave him a bright smile. “you can’t put this back in the ground and expect it to grow again, but you can get the seeds and start from scratch. some good soil, maybe fertiliser, lots of water and love and patience, and this sunflower will grow again, good as new.”

then he tapped sanha on the side of the head with his new sunflower. “are you listening? you understand what i’m trying to say?”

sanha felt something in his chest twist as he swallowed around the lump in his throat. the man smiled, satisfied, and said, “guess you get it. i don’t know what happened, but you look like shit, so hang in there.”

“i’ve been _hanging in there_ for years.”

“yeah? why stop now?”

“i’m tired. i don’t want to do anything right now.”

“that’s perfectly fine! then don’t _do_ anything if you don’t feel like it.” the man leaned down so he was eye level with him. “but don’t linger for too long, okay? don’t stay there for too long. pick yourself back up and get ready to get going, because the world won't stop to wait for you.”

sanha knew. he _knew_ , dammit, but he’d need a few days or weeks to simply get up and _do_ again, and he wasn’t sure if he could, but apparently this stranger thought otherwise.

he looked at the man again and wondered who the hell this guy was, coming to him out of the blue and throwing out life lessons at him in the rain.

“who are you?” he finally asked.

the man laughed, a wonderful, happy sound that stood out against the raindrops hitting the asphalt. “heck, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“what does that even mean–”

“oh, did you know? carnations mean ‘i’ll never forget you’. so you know what, i’m gonna take– this–” a carnation slipped out of sanha’s grip. “nice, thanks!”

“hey, i didn’t say you could–”

“i’m gonna take this, because i’ll probably see you again, and till then i will pray every day that you are doing well.”

sanha felt that simple declaration, that unspoken promise tug at his heartstrings, and suddenly he felt just a little bit better. the man smiled at him brightly; for a moment, he was reminded of the sun and his mother who was a sunflower, and he felt like crying again but he didn’t. instead, sanha returned the smile with a tiny, shaky one of his own, and choked out a laugh when the man slapped him on the back happily.

“that’s the spirit, buddy!”

“okay, anyway, the sunflower is free but the carnation–”

“ah, look at the time, i must go,” the man sighed, looking at his watch. then he shoved his umbrella into sanha’s hands, yelled “take this, i have twenty more at home,” and started jogging off.

sanha whirled around. “hey!”

“thanks for the flowers, sanha! i love free stuff!”

“what’s your name?” sanha shouted out, and he heard an answering yell muffled by the rain. then he was gone.

* * *

sanha didn’t need the umbrella after all. by the time he got up to leave, the rain had let up, and he walked home with his flowers tucked into his chest. he sat at his dining table and set the carnations into a vase, staring at them as he twirled his last sunflower between his fingers.

_“oh, did you know? carnations mean ‘i’ll never forget you’."_

sanha thought of his mother and cried.

* * *

after a week of shutting himself out from the outside world, sanha stepped out of his house, smacking his forehead in the threshold by accident, and pulled out weeds that were growing in his garden. he cleared the dead leaves and flowers and stared at the empty space that once thrived, and went back inside.

maybe another day.

* * *

three days later, he stepped out to see little seedlings just barely peeking through the uneven soil. he listened to the hope in his heart and watered them carefully, and then set to work.

* * *

after three weeks went by, there were marigolds and what he discovered to be zinnias in his garden.

* * *

a month in, and he spotted what were undeniably budding roses.

* * *

three months later, his sunflowers were reaching for the sun. sanha took one and put it on his bedside table, and hoped his mother was proud.

* * *

when sanha was eighteen years old, he picked up the guitar and started to perform street gigs with songs he learned or had written. he sang about the little boy who called him ugly when he was ten then ran off with his tulips, and the boy who saved his flowers and made fun of him, and the man who took a stranger in, and another who was far too kind. he wrote a song about the man who appeared before him on a dark, rainy day and made him the sun.

he sang about the flowers in his little garden and the daisies he picked up on the dirt path to town, and of carnations and roses and wonderful magnolias, and sunflowers that reached for the skies. sanha sang about selling those flowers on the streets and the story of how his garden died.

he looked up from his song and bowed his head at the applause, smiling and feeling like he was going to burst with joy. he caught sight of a man with golden hair among the crowd, sticking out like a sore thumb – like the _sun_ – and smiled even wider when the man winked at him.

“this next and last song is called star,” sanha said into his mic, smiling, “and this goes out to everyone having a rough time.

“hang in there.”

**Author's Note:**

> im finally on ao3! hoho
> 
> edited this a little, because i didnt read it through before i posted it up on [my tumblr](http://heybinnie.tumblr.com) so it was kinda rough around the edges. hope this monster made sense. can you guess who are the people sanha meets? (DUMB QUESTION)
> 
> inspired by [starrycranes' sanha moodboard](http://starrycranes.tumblr.com/post/159154746277/astro-the-earth-66-sanha-is-nature-from-the) on tumblr (the middle pic of the bottom row)!


End file.
